


I Forgot to Remember to Forget

by poselikeateam



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Character Study, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Anxiety, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia has PTSD, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Misgendering, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stream of Consciousness, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Jaskier says something without thinking, and it really gets to him. That's nothing unusual, but it's different this time. Geralt can't... he can't handle the things it reminds him of. Sometimes the littlest things are what does it. Sometimes just a careless phrase or a specific scent or a loud noise will throw him, as if through magic, back in time. He gets stuck in these memories and he can't getout.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 189





	I Forgot to Remember to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm gonna be honest: sometimes my issues just hijack my hands and I end up writing a fic to work through my own stupid trauma but like, this one was a little too much. I wrote it, saved it, and then just never looked at it for a few months. I didn't edit this, I didn't even read it back. It's too much for me. I don't wanna have flashbacks today lmao. So uh?? idk it's probably a mess but I just couldn't leave it in my folder and I couldn't just delete it and I need to like, move on. If I missed any tags or mis-tagged the fic in any way please let me know because I straight up will not read this for the sake of my own mental health

It seems like such a little thing — _is_ a little thing — but the way Geralt reacts is anything but. He doesn’t even remember what Jaskier _said_ , doesn’t fully register anything beyond the bard jokingly referring to him — or maybe comparing him to? — a woman. Faintly, as though from afar, he registers the wooden tankard splintering in his grasp, ale splashing over his hand and the table. He doesn’t— he isn’t _there_ , anymore, not really. Ignoring whatever Jaskier is saying to him, words he can’t fathom trying to make sense of right now, he abruptly stands and leaves the inn. Air. He needs air.

It’s just a joke. Jaskier didn’t mean it, doesn’t actually think that Geralt _is_ a woman, a— a comely lass, or whatever it is he’d said. And he knows, rationally speaking, that it shouldn’t bother him even if the bard _did_ mean it. After all, the joke was probably something to do with his masculine appearance. Jaskier jokes about his muscles _constantly_. It’s just that… that doesn’t seem to matter, not to that part of his mind that’s still stuck in the past, trapped in the hell he’d been through at Kaer Morhen as a boy.

Only, that’s not entirely accurate, is it? 

Geralt is brought back in time, viewing memories as real-time events, the world around him nothing but background noise. He is trapped. He is — she is — no, _he_ is small, so small. He tells his mother to stop calling him her daughter, he isn’t, he’s a boy. Maybe that’s what makes her leave him on his own, telling him to stay put and not looking back. He is alone, and then there is this man, this witcher. Vesemir. Vesemir asks his name, and he doesn’t really answer, asks for his mother, only to be told that she isn’t coming back, child, what is your name? And he realises — if his mother isn’t coming back, he can give whatever answer he wants, and no one can correct him, because no one has to know. “ _Geralt_ ,” he says. “ _My name is Geralt, and I’m a boy._ ”

And Vesemir gives him a strange look and says, “ _Of course you are, son. Witchers are always boys._ ” And Geralt, who is truly _Geralt_ for the first time, does not ask questions. He merely follows the witcher, follows this strange mirror of his own future.

He’s older, suddenly, still a boy, but only barely. He does all of the same things the other boys do, goes through all of the same training, eats all of the same food. Visually, there is nothing separating him from the other residents of Kaer Morhen who are not yet witchers. That is, with his clothes on. Unfortunately, by now, he has learned the difference between boys and girls — or, rather, what others think is the difference. He knows there’s something he’s missing, he knows there’s something he has but shouldn’t, and he— he can’t stand to think about it, so he just _doesn’t_. It’s his secret.

Another boy — he can’t remember this boy’s name, for some reason. The boy finds out his secret, his shame. The boy finds out what he— what he _isn’t_ , what he _almost was_. He feels like he’s going to be sick, but he can’t react. He needs to keep his emotions in check because if a witcher can’t do that… he won’t last, on the Path. 

“ _We don’t need any maids,_ ” the boy sneers. 

“ _Really? I wouldn’t put that laziness past you,_ ” Geralt answers, desperately trying to keep his rage in check.

“ _You little bitch_!” is the boy’s answer. “ _There are no girls at Kaer Morhen! Go crawl back where you came from_!”

Geralt refuses to answer him, just crosses his arms. His arms, which are just as muscled as the other boy’s, maybe even moreso. Geralt can run faster than him. He wonders if this is because he won a sparring match against this boy yesterday. He will not allow himself to be baited.

The boy, however, is not of the same mind. When Geralt refuses to react, he grits his teeth and _lunges_ , and Geralt just barely sidesteps the assault. With a howl of rage, the boy charges at him again. Geralt, once more, dodges. 

“ _Boys!_ ” barks a voice, one of the instructors. It is not Vesemir, and again, for some reason, Geralt cannot recall his name. 

“ _She started it_!” spits the boy, pointing fiercely at Geralt. The instructor backhands him in response. He should have known better than to talk back. It does not need to be said.

“ _There are enough things out there that will kill you without a thought,_ ” snarls the instructor. “ _Witchers do not fight one another, is that clear_?”

“ _She can’t be a witcher,_ ” the boy stubbornly answers. “ _Witchers are never girls._ ”

The memory shifts. He is being held down. That boy, and three of his friends — it had taken them all to subdue Geralt. They caught him off guard. He deserves this for his carelessness. 

He knows what they’re planning to do, and he refuses to react, refuses to allow them that satisfaction. They want him to spit and snarl and fight, to scream and cry and beg, and he will do none of it. When they cut open his trousers with a knife, he falls into meditative exercises. He will not be present for this. Even when they kick him — there’s a broken rib, that might be a concussion — he will not react. He has been through worse. He will be through worse. This will not break him. 

Someone is shaking him, saying his name. It is not one of the boys. Geralt blinks his eyes open and looks into the yellow feline gaze Eskel pins him with. Eskel has been through the Trials. Geralt will be, soon. 

Geralt looks down at his own body, dreading what he will see. To his relief and surprise, his smallclothes are still intact. 

“ _Are you alright_?” Eskel asks him. The mutations have not taken his emotions. Geralt is glad. Hopefully it is just a rumour. Hopefully they will not take his. Hopefully he will survive them.

“ _I’m fine,_ ” he answers, sitting up. Immediately, he regrets it. “ _Might… might have broken a few things._ ”

Eskel helps him to the infirmary. The healers are not kind, but then, they never were. He gives an account of what happened, as though reciting a story told to him by someone else. He never sees those boys again.

Another shift. He has just passed the Trial of the Grasses. It was agony. He is alive. He is different.

That small child that was first taken here by Vesemir all those years ago is gone. There is not a single trace of him left. Geralt doesn’t know how he feels about that. He looks in the mirror-like surface of his dagger. He does not recognise the face that stares back.

Geralt does not know how to feel. He does not know what he is feeling. He is numb, almost. Perhaps it is because he is feeling so much, he simply… he can’t, he just can’t process it right now. He has been through so much. More than the other boys, more than _any_ other boys. But he is no longer a boy. He is a witcher, now. And witchers are _never_ girls.

Hands on his shoulders, shaking him, squeezing. The tunnel he is trapped in widens, the cacophony of memories dissipates, until he is back in the present. Blue eyes, cornflower blue, stare into his with an intensity that almost makes him dizzy. Belatedly, he realises that he is not properly breathing. His heart hammers in his chest, up to the pace of a human at rest. 

He steadies his breathing, calms his body even as his mind is still racing. 

“Geralt, what the fuck was that?” Jaskier asks. Though it must be meant to come out as a demand, all he hears is the worry.

“Witchers are never girls,” he says. It’s all he can say, all he can think.

Jaskier glares at him, worry melting to frustration. Geralt understands. Frustration is easier. “Are you serious?” he asks, incredulous. “You, of all people— just _look_ at you! It doesn’t bother you when close-minded peasants spit at you and call you a freak, but you lose your shit if—”

“Don’t say it.” This, too, is meant to sound like a demand, a reproach. It comes out as a broken plea. 

The fight leaves his bard all at once. Geralt almost hears him deflate. “What is this really about?” he asks, gently, so gently. It is impossible to keep up with the whirlwind of emotions that Jaskier has, that he _is_ , but at this point the familiarity of that fact is grounding. 

“I can’t,” he says simply. “Memories.”

Jaskier nods, sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

A hand in his. He does not have to look to know the loving gaze he’s pinned with, but he does anyway, because he needs it. He needs to drown in it, to drown out the memories. Memories he may never share, not fully. He does not feel strong enough, not in this way. 

And Jaskier understands.

Thank all the Gods that Geralt does not believe in, Jaskier _understands_. Jaskier has seen him, has seen _all_ of him, and has never once… It’s not like that. _He_ is not like that. And Geralt _knows_ , he _knew_ but it still— 

It still hurts. The memories trap him, sometimes. Jaskier has seen that, too, has held him through it, has helped pull his pieces back together whenever something makes him shatter. He can’t make the nightmares stop, can’t burn away the memories. No one can, nothing can. These are scars Geralt will carry with him forever, from a beast that no silver blade can touch. 

And yet, it’s okay. It isn’t, it can’t be, but it is. He is okay. He survived. He will continue to survive, until he doesn’t. And he is getting better, slowly. There is someone who sees him, sees _all_ of him, and accepts him for all that he is. There is someone who, even though he cannot explain, understands. There is someone to help him.

It’s more than he ever thought he could have. It’s more than he can accept, some days. He’s working on that, too.

Jaskier hums an absent tune as they sit together on the cold ground. Haltingly, Geralt starts to tell him as much as he can. It hurts, but… it’s like pulling out a weed. If he rips out the roots then maybe, just maybe, they will not grow back. 

This will never truly be easy, but with Jaskier, it gets a little easier. Just having someone who _understands_... it’s nice. 

He’ll be okay.


End file.
